


King Peter

by some1scribbles



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, POV Original Female Character, Sass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26994916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/some1scribbles/pseuds/some1scribbles
Summary: What happens when a dryad falls out of Narnia into WWII London? What happens when she has to wear human skin, hide in bomb shelters, and run errands for Mum like everyone else? And what happens when she sees a gaggle of schoolboys calling the bloody High King of Narnia "King Peter" as some kind of joke?This is the story of a king in a boy's body, a dryad learning to be human, and a gaggle of friends who will destroy anyone who dares lay a finger on them. There will be hijinks, shenanigans, tomfoolery, and probably angst, so be prepared.
Relationships: Edmund Pevensie & Lucy Pevensie & Peter Pevensie & Susan Pevensie, Peter Pevensie & Original Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 48





	1. That is HIGH King to you, peasant.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovelies! I'm pretty new to AO3 and have never written a fic before, so this is going to be an adventure:)
> 
> The idea for this story came from a Tumblr post I found while derping around on Pinterest. I can't find that post for the life of me because I forgot to pin it, but the gist of it is, "What if Peter still acted all regal and kingly when he got back from Narnia? What if his friends pick up on it and start calling him King Peter as a joke? And what if Peter rolls with it but is also Very Sad?"
> 
> I wanted this to be an itty-bitty one-shot with Peter, a couple of nameless friends, and a pinch of angst. So, naturally, that's the exact opposite of what happened. All Peter's friends have actual names & personalities, the POV character is a freaking dryad who occasionally calls people "peasant", and these fools have already banded together to make me write chapter 2. So yeah. We'll see how this goes.
> 
> I'll try to post every 2 weeks or so, but adulting is hard and it might take a little longer than that. I'll try not to leave you hanging too long, but sorry in advance in case I do.
> 
> And now, here's chapter 1. I tried to make it as lovely as you, and I hope it makes your day better. Toodles<3

I have lived among humans for exactly a year, according to how this ball of earth orbits the sun. A year since I fell out of my home just as my leaves were catching autumn’s fire. A year since I fell into a cold, wet, magicless place of smoke and bombs and rubble called London.

There are no bombs back home. When one creature kills another, she is close enough to spill her enemy’s blood, see the light fade from his eyes, feel his life slip through her fingers like water through cupped hands.

Here, the humans kill with metal birds that vomit fire on faces they will never see.

The worst part is not the number of nights I cry myself to sleep, or the number of mornings I wake up cold because the skies of home are now London-gray in my memory. No; the worst part is how many days I can go without thinking of home at all.

Today, for instance, home is a hazy thing, less solid than the wood of the tailor’s door when I push through it into one of those warm, clear days that don’t exist here. My adoptive mother’s change too light in my pocket, her new work clothes wrapped in a crinkly byproduct of murdered trees, the pavement warm through the soles of my shoes… today, these are real in a way home is not.

The little street is crowded today; Mother’s tailor sits near an entrance to the Tube, and boarding-school boys in navy jackets are billowing out of it like smoke for summer holiday. As I dawdle beneath the tailor’s awning to count the change one more time—money still confounds me, and the tailor sometimes lets me err when it suits him—a handful of chattering year-12 boys breaks away to gawk at something in a shop window on the corner.

As more navy-clad adolescents swarm up the stairs into the rare sunshine, one tousled head pops out above the others who’ve crowded around the corner shop. “Make way!” He starts jumping and flapping his arms. “Make way for the king!”

Laughing and whooping, the shop-window friends make room on the pavement as the swarm of newcomers crosses the street. I cannot see the so-called king—that clump of tall, meat-headed fellows must be hiding him—but his friends sweep clumsy bows and call out, “All hail!” and “Long live the king!” and other praises. The tousle-haired boy even takes a knee and declares, “Thou hast my sword!” with a fist in the air and a grin on his face.

The meat-headed ones lumber out of the way, and then the king is here with his chin high, his back oak-tree straight, his hands gentle and expression kind as he wraps both hands around that of his friend and pulls him to his feet.

And his smile…

I know that smile, even if it is faint and faded.

It is the smile of my King the day he rose from his throne to accept the crown.

His face is wrong, now. Too round. Too button-nosed. Too uncarved by time or battle. His sandy hair, chopped short and no longer graying too early, bears no crown. And despite the grace of his gait, his limbs gangle with their youth like they’re no longer accustomed to it.

But his deep-set eyes, piercing yet warm, still shine the blue of the clear northern sky. The kind of blue that makes something in my chest—something tucked away, something too real and not real enough—feel at home and almost smile.

My King does something strange, then: instead of raising a hand to hush them, wishing them well on behalf of his court, or something of that nature, he flushes pink beneath the praise of his subjects and the eye-rolls of passing adults who clearly know not who he is.

I am no great scholar of human expressions and mannerisms, but I have learned to recognize embarrassment rather well. And embarrassment is the only word for what I see in the face of my King. His Majesty has waved and smiled to audiences of thousands, extracted peace treaties from kingdoms who would rather grind our home to dust, felled rampaging minotaurs despite five arrows impaling his back. Why would a moment this small and sweet pull tension bowstring-tight across his shoulders?

And why would it make him blink away tears?

Before I can even begin to grope for answers, my King sweeps his tears under a smile and bows to his subjects. Even then, his bow is small and meek as if he is humoring the antics of primary-school children, not acknowledging true devotion. They are certainly acting like children, all chuckles and shouts and calling him King instead of his true title, but there can be no questioning their loyalty to him.

So what in the worlds is going on?

“Well,” says the tousle-haired boy with a hand on His Majesty’s shoulder, “best be off. Places to see and people to do and all that.”

My King huffs through his nose at that, mouth turning up at the corners much too briefly before reverting to a solemn line. “I don’t think that’s how it goes, mate.”

The tousle-haired one laughs as he folds into the sloppiest bow in all human history. “Whatever you say, my king.”

And this is the moment where, as Mother would say, I open my big fat mouth.

“That is _High_ King to you, peasant.”


	2. A Few Steps Closer to Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies!
> 
> I'm having a hard time focusing enough to type these notes because - I kid you not - I'm being distracted by a squirrel. There is a precious, fluffy, chubby little squirrel playing in our yard, and HOLY FRICK HE'S GOT A LIL BABY ACORN IN HIS LIL BABY PAWS! Life: made.
> 
> ANYway, I'm spending all of next week with one of the friends who encouraged me to publish this fic, so I figured I'd post my chapter a few days early. It's not the best thing I've ever written, but there's only so much editing and rewriting I can do without accidentally making it worse, lol!
> 
> There's a wee bit of angst in this chapter, but it's mostly a bunch of friends being ridiculous, Maggie being savage, and Peter being a cinnamon roll. So, here it is! Toodles<3

I beg the pavement to swallow me whole as the group startles and turns my way. The tousle-haired boy looks amused, his friends puzzled, and my King—High King Peter, Lord of Cair Paravel, Emperor of the Lone Islands—blanches birch-tree white and fumbles his satchel in a most unkinglike manner.

“ _High_ King?” The tousle-haired boy crosses his arms, stance wide, grin crooked. “Why _High_ King? I mean”—he cocks his head at his ruler—“I know His Majesty’s a bit of a giant, but as a member of the Royal Guard, I believe _High_ King’s a bit on-the-nose.”

“On the nose?” Deciding to curse human idioms another day, I squint at the tousle-haired boy’s most prominent facial feature. “There is nothing on your nose but spots.”

“Ooooooooooooh,” go the other boys, grinning and elbowing each other.

The tousle-haired one beams back at King Peter. “I like her.”

“ _Like_ her?” squawks a shrill voice. Two boys shuffle aside to reveal a squat shape made of freckles. “This wench has mocked His Most Royal Majesty and besmirched the complexion of Sir Oliver the Mighty!”

Wench?

I am not even _human_ , you leafless lump of meat.

I am the Dryad of the Magnolias. I have branches for bones, and sap for blood, and petals aching to burst through this squishy pink flesh. I am mere hours younger than the Narnian sun. I laugh at the confines of time and human skin.

Yet here you stand, calling me wench.

I do not say that, though; not after what happened the first and last time I revealed my true self to someone. I merely raise a hand toward my spotty-nosed opponent, smirk at his defender, and remark, “Sir Oliver’s complexion besmirches itself well enough without my help.”

The onlookers hoot and guffaw and double over with the force of their mirth. Somewhere beneath it all, a softer laugh, small but true, brushes through the roar like summer wind through leaves.

Something about this gentle joy hushes the cacophony. All heads turn and all gazes pin themselves to the source of it.

My King frowns at the stares of his friends. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing!” Sir Oliver shakes away the shock and paints on a smile. Hands clasped, he spins on his heel to face the group and says, “Lads, we’ve got decisions to make.”

“Www… what… what d-d…” a spindly-legged boy’s head twitches with the effort of forcing the words out. “D-decisions?”

“Yeah.” A squash-faced mountain—the only boy His Majesty has to crane his neck to look at—crosses his arms, school jacket straining against the muscles of his shoulders. “What decisions?”

“An excellent question, Counselor Theo,” says Sir Oliver to the spindly-legged one.

The mountain’s squashed face grows even more squashed as he pouts. “I asked, too, y’know.”

“And Sir Jack,” Sir Oliver tacks on with a smile. “Our _first_ order of business…”

I stop listening, then; the discussion has moved on, and I am no more a part of it than I am of humanity. I turn back, take a step, then a second, then a third, a fourth, a fifth.

Somewhere around my tenth step, Sir Oliver’s voice rings out behind me: “Excuse me, but just _where_ d’you think you’re going?”

Forcing myself to turn around, I drag my gaze upward to meet his and craft a response sparkling with intelligence and wit: “Um… what?”

The knight struts toward me, grinning, arms open wide. “You have bested us in verbal battle. Neglecting to reward such might, such skill, such _prowess_ , would forever tarnish the good name of this court.”

Oh, dear.

Without giving me the chance to respond, Sir Oliver slings an arm around my shoulder and starts walking me back to his waiting friends. “Thank you,” he whispers, breath tickling my ear.

“For what?”

He inclines his tousled head toward my King. “You made him laugh.”

I frown, puzzled. “And?”

Sir Oliver simply looks at me, all grins and bluster gone. “He hasn’t laughed in months.”

“W- _what?_ ”

“Friends, Romans, and all that rot,” he booms instead of answering me. “Lend me your ears that I may present to thee the great Lady…” he turns to me, frowning. “What’s your name?” he hisses in my ear.

“Magnolia.”

“ _Maggie,_ ” he proclaims with a sweep of his free arm. “Lord Ernest”—he dips a slight bow toward the lump who called me wench—“as this court’s great protector of the law, will you do the honors of swearing in Lady Maggie?”

Lord Ernest the Freckled puffs out his chest and sticks his nose in the air. “I will.” Marching imperiously to the center of the circle formed around him, he plants his feet and beckons to me. “Lady Maggie, come stand before thy king and his court.”

With nothing but a nudge and a whispered “hand over your heart” from Sir Oliver, I join Lord Ernest in the center of the circle.

“Dost thou swear,” says Lord Ernest, voice cracking, “to bring honor to King Peter’s name, to uphold the laws and statutes of this court, and to play fair in cricket and share your chips with those of us who can’t afford them?”

That last part of the oath seems a bit out-of-place, to say the least, but I straighten my spine and reply, “I do.”

“Your Majesty”—Lord Ernest inclines his weak little chin to the King—“dost thou accept the pledge of this fair lady?”

Head cocked in a way that brings Queen Lucy to mind, the High King turns to me with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes gently searching mine. Then, smiling softly, he steps forward and takes my free hand. “I do.” He bows over my hand as if we stand in Cair Paravel. “Welcome to court, Lady Maggie.”

The boys explode into cheers. Then faces are looming over me and hands are shaking mine and voices are clambering on top of each other in their desperation to be heard. His Majesty has to place himself between me and them with outstretched arms and more of that beautiful laugh.

“Gentlemen, please,” says the King, voice strained with the effort of maintaining courtly seriousness. “You forget your places. First and foremost, she must be welcomed by the royal family.”

This proclamation is met with puzzled blinks and frowns, some of which are mine.

Slipping into a London schoolboy façade, he explains, “She’s a friend from when we stayed with the professor. Su would _kill_ me if I didn’t bring her ‘round.”

“Right,” says Sir Oliver with a smirk. The others snicker.

The King levels a look at his friend. “Sir Oliver, need I remind you what happened the last time someone made Su angry?”

Everyone but the gallant knight shudders at the memory. Even Sir Jack seems to shrink at the thought of the Queen’s ire.

“Alright, alright.” Sir Oliver holds his palms up in submission. “We’ll buy it until it’s more fun for us not to. Now bugger off.”

“Gladly.” His Majesty meets my eyes with his. “Shall we?”

Heart pounding, I curl my fingers around the arm he so chivalrously offers. “We shall.”

And that is how I find myself walking arm-in-arm with King Peter the Magnificent, Mother's dead-tree-wrapped dress forgotten in its place under my arm, trying not to burst into a flurry of petals.

I will pay for my tardiness later. For now, I am a few steps closer to home.


	3. Until time crumbles and the sun melts like candle wax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goshdangit, I'm a day late! Sorry, guys.
> 
> This chapter was so hard to write, but I'm really happy with how it turned out. I won't say anything except that it's a bit of an angst-fest with references to how the Pevensies' friends (Tumnus, the Beavers, Oreius, etc.) handled things post-disappearance. There's also a little backstory on how the frick Maggie got to London and stuff.
> 
> Hopefully, now that this scene is out of the way, I can start working on Maggie meeting the Pevensies and making that meeting as adorable and full of ridiculous banter (mostly Edmund's) as possible.
> 
> And now, here's the chapter! I hope it's at least half as wonderful as you are. Toodles<3

We turn a corner, a second, a third, and then we find ourselves on a street with fewer shops and more houses. “So.” King Peter swallows. “That was interesting.”

“Yes.”

“You called me High King.”

“I did.”

His eyes shine, but not with tears. “So you… you’ve been there?”

One corner of my mouth curls upward. “I _come_ from Narnia. I have _been_ to London.”

Peter jolts to a stop. He begins to look me over, but shakes his head at himself as if he realizes that might be rude. “But you look—”

“Human?”

He nods.

I look up and down the street: a mother playing with her daughter. A man in a suit behind us. No faces peering through curtains, and no eyes on us except the glinting green ones of a stray tabby.

Even so, I lead my King into an alley, narrow and dark and smelling wrong despite being a bit farther from the center of town. I then release my King’s arm, close my eyes, and dissolve in a swirl of magnolia petals.

Letting Mother’s dress fall to the ground, I spin out of my clothes and around my King’s head in a breeze. I am flying, I am free, and I cannot help but ruffle his hair and tap him on the nose.

He does not scold. He does not remind me the nose I poked is a royal nose. He simply blinks and goes cross-eyed at my touch, and his mouth falls open as I land, wrap my soul in roots and bark, and let the sun sift through my branches to dapple his face.

His Majesty does not smile, but his eyes glow as he shades them with one hand and gazes at my flowers. “A Dryad.”

Mirth ripples through my blossoms as they stretch, unbound, untethered, to the sliver of sky between the two roofs above us. _Yes,_ I say, my answer thrumming from my roots, through the pavement, and up into his shoes.

He jumps at the feel of tree-speak—a sensation he must have all but forgotten—then comes back to himself and kneels at my roots to better feel my words. “How did you get here?”

A river of sorrow rushes over me before I can dam it. The force of it knocks Peter into the wall behind him, drowning the light in his eyes. He scrambles to his feet and presses a palm to the ground. “What…” he swallows, blinks, and tries again. “What happened to you?”

 _Our Kings and Queens were gone,_ I answer, hating how my King winces as if it was his fault. _Oreius rallied the knights, Tumnus and I gathered the forest-people, the Beavers swam up and down the river in search of the hounds with the best noses…_

Oreius, face grim and blank as if the Witch had turned him to stone again.

Tumnus, words fumbling and tumbling as he sent out the forest-folk, crying once they left.

The Beavers, clinging to each other with soft little arms every time the hounds returned with drooping heads and tails.

Here, in this London alley, tears glisten in the eyes of His Majesty as my memories flood him. Self-loathing knifes through me like shards of ice; my King is crying, crying because of me, crying because I am a horrible, despicable—

My King’s head snaps upward, face hardening even as tears roll down his cheeks. He stands and places a hand on the side of my trunk. “Magnolia…”

I stretch my trunk skyward and shake the sorrow from my branches. _Forgive me, Your Majesty._

“There is nothing to forgive.” Feeble spurts of calm sputter from his hand—a human’s stuttering attempt at tree-speak. “I won’t make you continue if you don’t want to, but I’m here if you do.”

King Edmund broke his wrist once, when he and his brother were leagues away from Queen Lucy’s fire-flower juice. The army-doctor set it incorrectly, so once the journey was over, the palace physician had to re-break the crooked bone so it would heal the right way.

I tell you this because when I say King Peter’s words broke my heart into wholeness, I want you to know exactly what I mean.

 _The search stretched from full moon to no moon to full again,_ I tell him. _I was in Queen Lucy’s favorite part of the woods when I passed through an arch of trees into a body that was not mine and a sky that rained metal and fire on creatures who looked like you._

His Majesty’s horror shocks from his hand to my bark to the tiniest tips of my branches. “You got here in a _bombing?_ ”

The alley walls block the wind, yet my flowers shudder. _Yes_.

“How… how did you—”

Words escape me, so I show him an old woman snatching my wrist with a hand gnarled like roots. I plunge him into the black of a cellar as booms and ragged breaths ring in our ears. I let him feel the world shake as debris buries the cellar door. I cling to him as the old woman’s heart spikes with terror and ceases to beat. I pull him through a crack in the rubble as I turn to petals and blow away.

I should not have lived, I did not want to live, but I _did_ live and I am here and that is all I can show before I burst into petals.

My King is silent as I piece myself together: make my petals girl-shaped, wrestle my skirt and jumper and shoes over a whirlwind that wants to fly apart, fold myself back into flesh.

“I…” My King’s face is old and young, sad and kind, as he picks up Mother’s dress and hands it to me. “I’m so sorry.”

I take the parcel, fingers brushing his. I smile because the ache is too great for tears. “I appreciate your pity, but I do not need it.”

His Majesty cocks his head like Queen Lucy again.

“I set out to find my Kings and Queens, and… well…” I gesture to my King with my free hand. “Here you are.”

The corners of King Peter’s mouth turn upward. “Here I am.”

Silence falls, and a ribbon of wind manages to twirl through the alley, and Peter offers me his arm once more. “Ready to meet the others?”

The others…

My mind flutters with petals and breezes again. The others, they are alive, and safe, and close, so close, mere steps away, minutes, seconds—

I catch my spiral of thoughts in a jar. With a smile, I reply, “It would be an honor, Your Majesty.”

The High King laughs, bright as stars after the inky black of everything. I take his arm, he places his warm hand over my cool one, and in return I swear to make him laugh until time crumbles and the sun melts like candle wax.


	4. Somewhere slightly farther than that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies!
> 
> So sorry my chapter is late! I ended up getting a new job, so the training and the Zoom calls and all that stuff have taken up 99.999999% of my time. (The other 0.0000001% has been consumed by Christmas shopping, which is STRESSFUL, lol!) As such, I'll probably be posting once a month instead of once a week until I get into the swing of things at work.
> 
> This chapter gives a little peek into Maggie's home life and the relationships between the Pevensie siblings. Not a whole lot happens, but I had fun writing it and hopefully you'll have fun reading it. Toodles<3
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: implied abuse.  
> -Maggie alludes to not being allowed to leave the house for several months.  
> -She mentions that "Mother" slapped her for forgetting to lock the door.  
> -She displays thought patterns that imply "Mother" is gaslighting her.

I have lived in London for a year. I have lived on the same street since after Mother took me away from The Nightmare Place. I have seen my neighbors shuffle home from work, walk their dogs, and scold their children for playing too close to the street.

So how in Aslan’s name did I not know the Narnian royal family lived six houses away?

Mother had begun letting me go outside over a month ago. I should have at least glimpsed them sometime between then and now, right?

I can address my abysmal observation skills later. Now, I must drop Mother’s dress off on the way to King Peter’s.

The lights are off behind the new curtains; Mother must not be home yet. I thank Aslan for her absence, then nearly vomit because what kind of daughter feels glad when her mother is away? Perhaps she is right to call me ungrateful.

Shoving those thoughts back into their dark little corner, I unlock the door, set the dead-tree-wrapped dress on the coffee table, and lock the door again because it took three days for the slap marks to fade after the last time I forgot.

I rejoin King Peter on the sidewalk, and he leads me to a quaint little home with a doorframe he has to stoop to fit through.

“Mum?” The sitting-room’s wallpaper and faded-but-clean couches muffle his voice as he closes the door. “I brought a friend ‘round for dinner, is that alright?”

“I’m not Mum, so I don’t care,” says a wry but smiling voice from the kitchen.

King Edmund…

I take the High King’s arm again to steady myself.

“Mum’s working late,” adds a low, warm voice that can only be Queen Susan’s.

My King had to duck to fit through the door, but something in him shrinks. “Again?”

Queen Susan’s sigh is answer enough.

I give his arm a gentle squeeze. He dips his head in thanks, then pulls away to shrug off his uniform jacket.

“I can _feel_ you getting sad in there,” says King Edmund.

His Majesty hangs his jacket on the hook. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

Chair legs scrape back and sock-feet pad across the floor and thump up wooden steps. “Lu!” King Edmund’s voice is muffled as if he is shouting around another wall. “Peter is sad again!”

Running feet thunder over our heads. “Where?”

“Front door!”

“Don’t worry, Peter!” Queen Lucy stampedes down the stairs. “I’m coming!”

The faintest of smiles tugs at His Majesty’s lips as Queen Lucy tears across the space between them, chestnut hair comet-tailing behind her. She barrels into him hard enough to knock him backwards and throws her arms around his waist.

“I’m here.” She lays her cheek on his chest. “All better.”

My King does not answer, but he closes his eyes, engulfs her narrow shoulders in his arms, and rocks back and forth, cheek resting on her hair.

Queen Lucy smiles at his contented sigh. “Is the sad going away?”

He nods.

The Queen’s grip on her brother’s waist loosens ever so slightly, but His Majesty squeezes tighter in protest. Queen Lucy giggles and squeezes back.

I am an intruder here—unwelcome eyes peering through the curtains of a private moment—so I lower my gaze, curl into myself, step backward…

And land on the creakiest floorboard in all of London.

Queen Lucy’s eyes fly open owlishly wide and meet mine. She gasps. “Peter!” She scrambles out of his arms, takes his hands, and beams up at him as she bounces. “You brought a _girl_ home?”

“He _what?_ ” demands King Edmund. He scrambles into view at the opening to the sitting-room, fringe rumpled, shirt untucked, suspenders dangling against his legs.

Queen Susan, all sleek curls and smooth skirt and shining shoes, moves to her younger brother’s side. She gives him a long-suffering look. “Please don’t scare her off.”

King Edmund snorts a laugh and crosses his arms. “If _Peter_ isn’t enough to scare her off—”

His sister’s eyebrows shoot toward her hairline.

“Alright, alright!” King Edmund traces an _x_ over his heart and raises his hand. “Best behavior, I promise,” he says, only half-trying to stifle his grin.

The Queen’s gaze pierces like arrows. “Your _very_ best.”

Queen Lucy, now leaning back against Peter’s chest with his arm around her, giggles at the other two members of the royal family.

With a smile like sunlight, Queen Susan glides toward me with the grace of a river-spirit. She extends her dainty right hand—the hand she once used to draw back her bowstring. “I’m Susan.”

I slide my hand into hers, exactly the way Mother showed me. “Maggie.”

Queen Lucy extracts herself from Peter’s embrace and sticks out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Maggie! How long have you and Peter been—”

“ _Lucy!_ ”

King Edmund chuckles. “And you thought _I_ would scare her off.”

Queen Susan’s eyebrows shoot skyward again, but it does nothing to faze her brother this time.

“Peter and I only met twenty minutes ago,” I interject. “I called his friend a peasant, among other things, and the rest of them thought it funny enough to swear me into their little court.”

“And now she’s our friend,” King Peter finishes.

King Edmund steeples his hands, presses his fingertips to his lips, and takes a deep breath. “Peter…” the steeple dips down to point toward His Majesty. “I love you like a brother—”

“We _are_ brothers.”

“—but Maggie is _much_ too pretty to be a friend.”

Warmth floods my cheeks. I manage to keep my gaze pinned to King Edmund’s, but I still shift on my feet and tuck a silvery strand behind my ear. “Um… thank you? I think?”

“Sorry if this sounds strange, but…” Queen Lucy’s fidgeting hands fall to her sides, eyes like King Peter’s searching mine. “Have we met? You know, somewhere else?”

Queen Susan’s smile turns wooden. “Do you mean the professor’s house?” she asks, her eyes stuck halfway between begging and threatening Lucy to play along.

I smile at the elder Queen, extend my hand, and let it dissolve into flowers and wind. “I believe she means somewhere slightly farther than that, Queen Susan.”


	5. The thought counts more than the chips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies!
> 
> Am I late again? Yes. Do I regret it? Of course, but not as much as I thought I would. I needed some time to make this chapter extra-special, but my new job has been a little too hectic to allow for that until now. It's also extra-long, but I had a bit of a galaxy-brain moment very late last night and (hopefully!) wrote something worth reading because of it.
> 
> Quite a bit happens in this chapter, emotionally speaking. Susan has to process the fact that there's a dryad in her sitting-room, Maggie learns that she's been gone for centuries, and the Pevensies are fantastic human beings who validate her emotions. There's a little humor, a lot of hurt/comfort, and - as the chapter title implies - delicious chips.
> 
> This chapter was so hard yet so cathartic to write, so I hope you love reading it as much as I loved writing it. Toodles<3
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: 1 mention of implied emotional neglect from Maggie's "mother"

“Did… did you just…” Queen Susan lifts a hand toward mine, stopping just close enough for a petal to brush her palm.

I lift my gaze to meet hers. “I did.”

The Queen nods and continues to stare. “Oh.”

Queen Lucy frowns up at her sister. “Su?” She touches the elder Queen’s arm. “Do you need to sit down?”

Queen Susan does not answer; she merely stares as pale human skin folds back around my hand.

Frown deepening, Queen Lucy shakes her sister gently. “Susan?”

“What?” Queen Susan blinks, shakes her head, and reenters the moment. “Oh. Yes. Sitting. That’d be good.”

She lets her younger sister steer her toward the couch, King Edmund follows, and King Peter gestures for me to join them upon seeing my hesitation. Once Queen Lucy has settled her sister at one end of the couch, she seats herself on the other end and, beaming up at me, pats the cushion between them.

Once I am sharing a couch with the Queens of Narnia—and, as a result, feeling as faint as Queen Susan looks—the Kings sit on the edge of the coffee table facing us so we can all be together.

“So. Maggie.” King Edmund leans forward on his elbows, dark eyes searching mine with an expression too old for his thin, freckled face. “Have we met before? Y’know, back in Narnia?”

The corners of my mouth curl upward. “Your sisters sent me to you and King Peter the night Aslan died.”

King Peter gapes for a moment—understandable, since I had not mentioned that in the alley—but Queen Lucy’s face brightens with recognition. “And you braided my hair all those times I hid in the woods!”

I chuckle. “Yes.”

“And _you_ ”—the younger King turns on his brother, grinning like an imp—“waved a _sword_ in her face the first time you met!”

The High King’s cheeks flush pink. “I—”

“Was scared witless because you were half-asleep and there was a stranger in our tent the night before we started a war?” King Edmund crosses his arms at his brother, smug satisfaction etched into his features.

King Peter blinks. “How did you—"

“—know the exact excuse you were going to use?” The younger King smirks. “You’re getting predictable in your old age.”

“ _Old age?_ ”

The smirk widens into a grin.

Queen Susan, who seems to have recovered somewhat, sighs and rolls her eyes at her brothers before turning back to me. “How did you get to London? Did Aslan send you?”

I look down at my hands. “Aslan must have willed me to come here, otherwise I would not have, but…” a wry smile works its way onto my face. “He did not see fit to _tell_ me I was coming here.”

The High King gives me a soft smile. “We know that feeling.”

“All too well,” agrees Queen Susan.

“How’s Caspian?” asks Queen Lucy. “And Trumpkin and Reepicheep and the rest?”

I frown at her, puzzled. “I do not know anyone by those names. Are they members of your Court, or…?”

Queen Lucy frowns, blinking at me with huge blue eyes. “Caspian’s the new King of Narnia.”

I freeze, and goosebumps crawl their way up my arms and spine. “Th-the what?”

The elder Queen’s brows draw together in concern. “Are you alright?”

“I do not know, I…” I turn to King Peter for confirmation. “New King?”

Before my King can reply, his brother leans toward me, eyes dark with the knowing seriousness he had been famous for at home. “Maggie, how long has it been since we disappeared?”

I force myself to hold his gaze, to lose myself in its cool dark depths instead of in panic. “It has obviously been some time since then, but when I first arrived here…” I swallow hard. “You had been gone from one full moon to the next.”

The Kings and Queens of Narnia stare at each other, then at me, with something dawning on their faces. Realization? Shock? Sorrow? Some awful mix of all three?

King Peter takes it upon himself to break the silence: “Maggie…” his eyes are so sad, and so kind, that he must be about to hurt me. “Last time we went to Narnia, it’d been thirteen-hundred years since we left.”

The couch, the floor, the world seems to lurch beneath me. “What?”

“Time is different in our world,” explains Queen Susan. “A year or so here is over a thousand back in Narnia.”

“Oh.” I stare at my lap, and bunch the hem of my jumper in my fists, and try to remember how to breathe.

Queen Susan puts a hand on my shoulder. “Maggie?”

“I am alright, I just…” my vision begins to blur. “I promised the Beavers I would be home for tea.”

I bury my face in my hands and weep.

Queen Lucy throws her arms around me, Queen Susan rubs circles on my shoulder with her thumb, and the Kings each put a hand on my knee. They do not pity me or say they are sorry or mutter empty comforts; they have grieved enough themselves to know better. They simply sit with me and let me break.

I have long known I will never again embrace my Beavers in a tangle of fur and petals and family. I have long known I will never see Mr. Beaver fall off his stool guffawing at Tumnus for being ridiculous. I have long known I will never feel Mrs. Beaver’s tiny paw pat my hand as she says, “Not to worry, love. There’s always hope.”

But knowing that my Beavers, and Tumnus, and Oreius, and everyone else I love died grieving for me the way they grieved those I left them to find… that cuts in places I did not know could bleed.

I do not know when, exactly, I burst into petals, or how Lucy managed to keep hugging me despite that. All I know is I am making an absolute fool of myself in front of the four most important people to walk the worlds.

And that if I return to the house with tearstained cheeks, Mother will be _furious_.

“Forgive me.” I coax my human skin back into place and wipe my eyes and nose. “I did not mean to—”

Queen Lucy lets go and flicks me between the eyes.

“Wh”—I splutter and gawk at her—“What was that for?”

She crosses her arms at me. “It’s what I do to Peter when he apologizes for having emotions.”

“But Your Highness—”

She flicks me again. “ _No!_ You’re allowed to have feelings and that’s final!”

Queen Susan directs a long-suffering sigh at her sister before turning back to me. “What Lucy means is that emotions happen when they happen, and you haven’t offended us by showing them. And you never will.”

“You should’ve seen us after we left Narnia the first time.” King Edmund shakes his head at the memory. “We were a right _mess_.”

“I cried every night for weeks,” says Queen Lucy.

“I couldn’t look in a mirror for months.” Queen Susan shudders. “The face I saw in it… it didn’t feel like mine. Still doesn’t, sometimes.”

The other three Pevensies nod at that.

“I sulked,” says King Edmund. “A _lot_. And sassed everything that breathed.”

“And _I_ was angry at everything.” King Peter grimaces. “I don’t have enough fingers to count the fights I got into.”

“And that I got you out of,” adds his brother.

The High King smiles down at the floor. “And that he got me out of.”

“The point is”—Queen Susan’s hand moves to my back—“you don’t have to be sorry for what you feel.”

“Or for showing it,” adds the younger Queen.

“You’ve lost so much,” says King Peter, smiling sadly. “That doesn’t go away, and it’d be unfair of us to expect that of you.”

“So any time you need a good cry”—Queen Lucy wraps my arm in both of hers, sets her chin on my shoulder, and smiles—“you can always come to us.”

I touch my forehead to hers and smile past the tears. “Thank you, Your Highness.” I turn my smile to the other three. “All of you.”

A peaceful silence falls, during which King Peter’s eyes search mine with a thoughtful expression. “Y’know,” he says after a moment, “you don’t have to call us King and Queen if you don’t want to.”

The world jolts under me again, this time for a nicer reason. “Really?”

“Well,” says Queen Susan, smiling like sunbeams and gesturing around us, “we’re not exactly in Court anymore.”

“Even if we were”—Queen Lucy blinks up at me, chin still on my shoulder—“we’ve practically adopted you at this point, so it’d be silly to keep using those stuffy titles and formalities and things.” Her precious little nose wrinkles. “Never did like that bit of being Queen.”

“Only because you couldn’t sit still long enough to learn them all,” teases Queen Susan. “Twenty years of ruling and I still had to correct you on the difference between a Duchess and a Countess.”

“ _Anyway_ ”—Queen Lucy pointedly returns her gaze to me—“the point still stands. I’m Lucy, she’s Susan, and that’s Peter and Edmund.” She gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “Alright?”

I cannot help but return her smile. “Alright.”

“And with that, I’d better start supper,” says Queen Susan—no, _Susan_. “Have you ever had fish and chips?”

I gratefully accept her hand and let her pull me to my feet. “Once, with the Beavers.” With a shudder, I add, “the chips were lovely, but the fish made me sick.”

“Really?” Lucy— _just Lucy_ —links her arm with mine and leads me to the kitchen, her siblings close behind. “Why?”

“I am a plant,” I tell her. “Plants do not need meat. Technically, we do not need food at all unless you count soil and sunlight.”

“In that case,” says Susan, following her sister to the icebox and opening it, “you can have all the chips you want.” She smiles ruefully. “I can’t promise they’ll be as good as Mrs. Beaver’s, though.”

“That is alright.” Smiling at them—at the Queens rummaging through the icebox, at Edmund clearing the kitchen worktop for them, at Peter moving to stand beside me, kind and gentle and warm—I add, “The thought counts more than the chips.”


	6. The warmth of being loved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies!
> 
> Guess who procrastinated on work enough to give you a frickin DOUBLE POST? Me. It was me. I did that.
> 
> This chapter is... well, it's a lot, so read the trigger warning to see if you need to skip it. In this chapter you meet the "Mother" Maggie has been alluding to throughout the past few chapters. As you've probably picked up from the hints I've been dropping, their relationship is not pretty. "Mother" is like an angrier Mother Gothel from Tangled, if that tells you anything.
> 
> If I have poorly represented an abusive parent's behavior, *please* leave a comment and I'll edit the chapter accordingly. Abuse is something this world needs to address - especially the type that doesn't leave bruises - so I want to portray it well on behalf of those experiencing it.
> 
> This is not a happy chapter, but I hope it helps you understand Maggie and learn to identify abusive behavior in real life. Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. Your support means a thousand worlds to me. Toodles<3
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING:  
> -Drunk and angry parental figure  
> -Verbal abuse  
> -1 instance of physical abuse ("Mother" grabs Maggie's face)  
> -Gaslighting behavior (Switching from anger to affection to keep Maggie off-balanc; telling Maggie she needs to be "cross" in order to protect her; guilt-tripping Maggie into eating food that makes her sick)

The sun had not set when we pushed back our plates. The sun had not set when the girls hugged me farewell and invited me to luncheon tomorrow. King Peter— _Peter_ , just Peter—is walking me home, and the sun _still_ has not set.

But I know, without the slightest scrap of doubt, that it will not matter to Mother.

I am glad of Peter, of the warmth of his arm beneath my fingers, of how solid he stands at my side. But it is not enough—nothing is enough—to push back the terror crawling up my throat, or to banish the mind’s-eye view of Mother sneering over me, all downturned mouth and flared nostrils and eyes frigid and sharp as icicles.

Nothing can be done now, however, except pray she read my note and has not had her sherry yet.

“Maggie?” Peter touches my hand where it rests in the crook of his elbow. “Are you alright? You look pale.”

Blinking back to the moment, I look around and realize we stand on the pavement in front of Mother’s house. “Oh! Yes,” I lie with a smile. “Just tired.”

Peter nods in understanding. “It’s been a day for us, hasn’t it?”

“That it has.”

He looks at me, and I look at him, and I have the distinct impression he knows I just lied. However, he does not press; he smiles again, shakes my hand in both of his, and says, “See you tomorrow, Maggie.”

“See you tomorrow… Peter.”

His smile widens, and with a small wave, he turns back toward home.

Unease rolls through my body as I climb the steps to Mother’s door. My fingers fumble the key twice before I manage to slide it into the lock and twist, and the smell of sherry choking the air nearly knocks me backward when I open the door.

Mother slamming a plate too hard on the worktop does nothing to quell my fear.

“Magnolia.” She shoves the plate in the cupboard and slams it shut. “Kitchen. Now.”

I nudge my shoes off with my toes, line them neatly beside hers, and stand in the doorway to the kitchen with my back straight and my eyes locked on hers the way she demands. “Yes, Mother?”

She whirls on me, fists on her hips, her sneer every bit as terrible as I had pictured. “I let you go to the tailor’s.” She takes one wavering step. “I trust you with _my_ money and _my_ dress.” Another step. “And you repay me”—she yanks my note from her pocket and brandishes it—“by using the freedom _I_ give you to fritter the night away with some stranger’s family I’ve never heard of?”

I say nothing and hang my head.

“Is _my_ food not good enough for you?” She leans in close, spittle flying in my face. “Is _my_ food, the food I _break my back_ to give you from the _goodness_ of my heart, too _plain,_ too _simple_ for Little Princess Magnolia?”

“No, Mother.”

“Then why in God’s name did you _steal_ the food from that family’s table? Don’t _I_ give you the meat from my plate, and the sweat from my brow, and the love from my heart?”

“They invited me, and I did not want to disappoint you by seeming rude.”

Mother digs her fingers into my jaw and wrenches my face toward hers. “You,” she snarls, her breath reeking, “will _always_ disappoint me.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I know, Mother. I am sorry.”

“Oh…” she releases my face and pulls me too tightly to her bosom. “I know you are, my blossom. I only have to be cross because I _worry,_ and you’re _so_ unready for this world, and I don’t know _what_ I would do without you.” She pulls back enough to stare wildly, desperately into my eyes. “You know that, don’t you, love?”

I nod and pull myself close to her again. “I know, Mother.”

She runs her fingers through my hair, her nails too sharp for the motion to comfort. “I love you so much, my blossom.”

I smile. “I love you more.”

She pulls back once again, cups my cheeks in hands as soft and cold as snow, and plants a kiss on my hairline. “And I love you most.”

Beaming, I wave a hand toward the washing in the sink. “Go lie down. I can do the rest of the washing. And draw you a bath once I finish.”

The angles of Mother’s face soften and color with delight. “You _do_ know how to spoil me, don’t you, blossom?”

After tapping the end of my nose, she pours herself another glass of sherry, waddles to the sofa with my help, and leaves me in peace for the hour it takes to do the washing-up and draw her bathwater. I even heat kettle after kettle so as not to waste our hot-water ration from the tap.

As I come to the sitting-room to fetch her, she turns glassy eyes on me and calls out, “I left some beans and a bit of chicken for you in the icebox. You are _so_ very thin, and I fear I’ll go quite distracted if you don’t eat a _little_ something else before bed.”

I manage a smile despite the queasiness curdling my stomach. “Anything for you, Mother.”

With that, I help her to the bathing-room, show her the kettle I left for when the bath gets too cold, and leave her be.

Once Mother is splashing and humming drunkenly to herself, I force myself not to sob in anticipation of what she is inflicting on me.

I cross the hall, one foot after the other.

I reenter the kitchen.

I open the icebox.

I find the plate Mother made up for me.

I set it on the table, along with a fork.

The beans are tolerable enough, but the chicken… even the smell nauseates me to the point of tears.

But I eat it.

I eat every bite.

By some great act of Aslan, I manage to hold it down until Mother staggers from out of the bath into bed in her dressing-gown and begins to snore.

Once I roll her onto her back and pull the sheets to her chin, I all but sprint to the toilet, fall to my knees hard enough to bruise them, and barely pull my hair back in time to vomit.

As my stomach squeezes itself empty, as my nose and eyes stream with every heave, as I spit out as much of the burning taste as possible, I shiver on the frigid tile and think of the Pevensies. I think of their kindness, their understanding, their unwavering care for a mere acquaintance.

I think of them, and I keep shivering, and I grasp in the dark for the warmth of being loved.


End file.
